


follow your heart 'til it bleeds

by Arbryna



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/F, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:50:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arbryna/pseuds/Arbryna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>as much as it hurts, ain't it wonderful to feel? </i><br/> </p><p>Isabela isn't an easy woman to love, but that doesn't stop Marian from trying. Time and time they come together, like waves crashing against the shore--but the sea is a cruel mistress, and nothing it touches remains unchanged. How long can Marian last before there's nothing left of her?</p>
            </blockquote>





	follow your heart 'til it bleeds

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I don't care if you don't want me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/918525) by [lea_hazel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lea_hazel/pseuds/lea_hazel). 



> Title and lyrics in summary are from Evanescence, "End of the Dream".

_i want you to come on, come on, come on, come on and take it_  
 _take another little piece of my heart now, baby_  
 _oh, oh, break it_  
 _break another little bit of my heart now, darling_

It all happened so fast. One minute they were arguing—loud and spirited, as always—about the pros and cons of Marian's move to Hightown (and really, Isabela, it was three years ago, get _over_ it already); the next, Marian found herself slammed up against a pillar in the front hall of her estate as Isabela's clever fingers tore at the fastenings of her clothing. By some miracle, they made it up to Marian's room, and all the passion that had infused their many arguments over the years was channeled into better, much more enjoyable purposes.

Then it was over, and Isabela made her excuses, ducking out with barely a word before the sheets could even get cold. Marian should have known better, should never have let herself get swept up in the heat and intensity of Isabela's mouth, her hands, her body. She'd stupidly believed that this could change things, that Isabela was actually starting to open up to her, that maybe this could be the start of something.

More fool, her. Whatever naive fancies she may have entertained before, they're well and truly banished now. It's barely been more than a day since Isabela's naked body was twined with her own, and already the blasted pirate has her legs wrapped around the waist of some nameless sailor at the docks.

It's an accident, stumbling across them like this. Marian is on her way to meet with a contact in the mage underground, something about saving mages' lives. She could have easily walked past this dank, reeking alley without seeing a thing; it's only by chance that she turns her head at just the right time to see a familiar flash of blue, the graceful curve of a neck as Isabela arches away from the wall at her back.

But chance has nothing to do with the way Isabela turns her head at Marian's soft gasp, or the way she digs her heels into the sailor's arse and rocks with more vigor than before. It's not an accident that Isabela moans louder, putting on a show for a very specific audience of one. Everything about it—her actions, the smirk on her face, the wanton lust in her voice—is designed to say one thing, and say it clearly:

_I'm not yours. I never will be._

Bitter acid rises in Marian's throat, and her face burns as she hurries on down the street.

She can't be mad, not really; she's always known what Isabela was, right from the start. It was only Marian's idiot heart that tried to convince her that there was something more—that somewhere underneath the shameless flirting and self-serving attitude, there was someone worth knowing…worth loving.

Well, she won't be making that mistake again.

 

* * *

 

_boom, boom, boom, boom_  
 _i'm gonna shoot you right down_  
 _right off your feet_

A laugh rings out over the din, rich and sultry and unmistakably Isabela. Marian's jaw clenches tighter.

"Just ignore them, Hawke," Varric says, shaking his head. "It's the only way to stay sane."

If only she could. Marian's been at the Hanged Man for half an hour now, and Isabela's hardly even glanced in her direction. She's more wrapped up in her latest conquest, a scrawny, awkward fellow that Marian's pretty sure is responsible for the terrible poetry carved into the walls of the privy. Somehow even amidst the discordant clamor of mugs clacking against tables, drunken voices raised in anger or despair or celebration, and the mediocre bard trying valiantly to play above it all, Marian still can't manage to lose track of that particular voice.

To look at Isabela now, one would never suspect that just a week ago she was sitting on Marian's bed, offering what were probably the first truly honest words she'd ever spoken to Marian—for all that she tried to cover them up with a lie. Despite the (not always good-natured) rancor that had characterized their relationship over the years, Isabela somehow knew exactly what Marian needed to hear in the aftermath of her mother's murder. What's more, she managed to put her own selfish interests aside long enough to say it. Every time Marian convinces herself that Isabela really is as shallow as she proclaims, Isabela has to go and spoil it by revealing some small glimmer of hidden depth.

It's almost more than she can take—especially now, when the last remnant of her family has been so cruelly torn from her (She doesn't count Gamlen—who would?—and Carver is so far away he may as well be dead, learning to fight darkspawn with the Grey Wardens). It's all on her now, restoring the family name and carrying on Father's legacy, and even that could be torn away from her in an instant if the templars discover that she fights with more than clever words and a big stick. Her life is a hair's breadth from lying in ruins, and the last thing she needs is yet another reminder of what an idiot she is for ever allowing herself to fall for someone like Isabela.

Naturally, that's exactly what she gets. Flames, but the Maker has a sick sense of humor.

"You know, sweet thing, I've got a room here. I could show you a thing or two."

Something breaks in Marian when she hears those two syllables, _sweet thing_ , tossed so casually toward the next warm body Isabela hopes to climb on top of. With barely a glance Varric's way, she shoves out of her chair and storms over to the table. Isabela has one arm slung around the man's shoulders, while the other hand does something no doubt untoward in his lap.

"Isabela, can I have a word?" Marian forces out, her crossed arms pressing almost painfully into her ribs.

"Hawke," Isabela says, feigning surprise at Marian's presence. She arches an eyebrow. "I'm a bit busy at the moment."

The man lets out a low gasp in response to whatever just happened under the table, and Isabela smirks. Marian steps around the table, grabbing the offending arm in an iron grip and pulling it away from his lap. "I don't care."

Isabela scowls, amber eyes narrowing in irritation. "If you haven't noticed, my life doesn't revolve around your opinions. Now get your hand off me before I cut it off." She tries to tug her arm free, but Marian tightens her grip.

"No."

Isabela's would-be companion decides—wisely so—that this would be a good time to duck out. Isabela tries to catch him, but Marian's hold limits her movement, and he skitters out the door into Lowtown. "Balls." She turns back to Marian, eyes smoldering dangerously. "Well, you've gone and spoiled my fun for the evening. I hope you're happy."

Marian clenches her jaw, meeting Isabela's gaze squarely with her own. "Hardly."

"Of course," Isabela huffs, rolling her eyes. "Might as well say whatever you have to say, then. What's so important?"

A beat passes in tense silence. "Not here," Marian finally says, yanking Isabela to her feet.

They make it to the top of the steps leading down into the tavern before Isabela stops and jerks her arm free. "Enough," she snaps, shoving Marian against the wall. "I'm not some pet to be led around at your whim. What the bloody Void do you want from me?"

For a second, Marian just stares. Grief and jealousy and a desperate sort of desire are all battling inside her, turning her thoughts to a jumbled, chaotic mess. She doesn't know _what_ she wants, exactly, but she knows that Isabela will never give it to her.

Isabela's eyes are blazing, her lips parted as shallow, angry breaths pass through. Her chest heaves against Marian's, white linen scarcely containing gleaming bronze skin. She smells like sweat and whiskey and leather, so much more vivid than the stench of vomit and piss that lingers in every corner here.

Before Marian is even aware of what she's doing, she's pushed Isabela up against the opposite wall, claiming her lips in a bruising kiss. Isabela's mouth opens against hers as nimble fingers clutch at Marian's short, choppy hair, tugging until her scalp aches.

They don't waste time. Hands work their way impatiently under clothes, and soon they're arching and gasping against each other. They're in the hallway of the Hanged Man—anyone could pass by and see—but Marian can't bring herself to care. All that matters is this moment, the hot clench around her fingers, the rush of Isabela's breath in her ear.

"Well if that's all you wanted," Isabela pants when it's all over, a lazy smirk sliding onto her lips, "why didn't you just say so?"

Tears prick at Marian's eyes as it hits her, _really_ hits her. Isabela will never be a lover, not in the way Marian wants. All she can hope for is a quick fuck every now and again, perhaps a hot sweaty night if Isabela's feeling indulgent. She shouldn't have done this, shouldn't think of doing it again—but with everything slipping away from her, Marian can't help but want something to cling to, even if it's something as fragile and imperfect as this.

 

* * *

 

_isn't it a pity_  
 _isn't it a shame_  
 _yes, how we break each other's hearts_  
 _and cause each other pain_

Accusation burns bright in Isabela's eyes, amber set aflame. Marian wants to laugh—not from any sort of happy feeling, but because of the absurdity of _Isabela_ being upset about this.

Isabela is the one who lied from the start—or at least wasn't completely honest. Isabela is the one who waited until the very last sodding moment to mention that maybe, just maybe, the relic she's been after for years could be the key to saving Kirkwall from the blighted Qunari. It was Isabela that ran off with said relic, even after Marian told her that under no circumstances was she going to let her have it.

Now she has the audacity to blame the whole thing on Marian. If only Marian had kept her distance, if only she hadn't meddled—never mind that Isabela _asked_ for her sodding help—if only Marian wasn't so damned noble. And somehow, the worst crime of all was _saving her bloody life_.

Marian is tired, and sore, and starting to wonder why she didn't just let the Arishok bloody well have Isabela, if this is the thanks she gets. Anger keeps her on her feet, keeps her arguing even when she's hardly aware of what either of them are saying. It doesn't matter, really. It's never mattered. Isabela will do what Isabela wants to do, and sod the rest of the world.

In the end, it doesn't matter that Isabela did the right thing—that she came back with the book when she could have escaped guilt-free (because when has Isabela ever felt a thing even remotely like guilt?). It doesn't matter because she's walking out the door again, and somehow Marian knows that it will be a long while before she sees Isabela again—if she ever does.

 

* * *

 

_yes I'll do anything in this godalmighty world_  
 _if you just let me follow you down_

"You're like an itch I can't scratch."

The wind is cold, the rocks hard against Marian's back as Isabela presses her into them. This is a bad idea, for so many reasons—Varric and Aveline are just a little ways down the path, they're supposed to be tracking down that kidnapped nobleman's daughter, there's going to be sand in all sorts of uncomfortable places when they're done—but like it always does, sense flew right out the window when Isabela gave her _that look_.

It was only matter of time, really. They've been tiptoeing around one another since Isabela returned to Kirkwall, both wary of falling into old habits, but it was useless trying to fight it. Even three years apart can't keep them from gravitating toward each other, ever colliding in a mess of bruises and tangled limbs. It's never _nice_ with Isabela, never slow or—Maker forbid—loving. There's always this angry sort of passion, this burning need to prove something to themselves or to each other, even if neither knows what exactly that something is.

Times like this, the answer almost becomes clear. Each thrust of fingers, each grind of hips, each clash of teeth and lips and tongue seems to propel Marian closer to understanding just why she finds this so flaming irresistible.

Then it ends, like a dream cut short right before it all starts to make sense. When they've readjusted their clothes, and Marian is rubbing at what is soon to be a livid bruise on her shoulder from a poorly-placed rock, Isabela catches her eye, gives her that blasted smirk.

"Just like old times," Isabela says breezily before she rushes on ahead to catch up with the others.

 

* * *

 

_please open your eyes_  
 _try to realize_  
 _i found out today we're going wrong_  
 _we're going wrong_

She wakes slowly, early morning light peeking through the thick curtains over her window. Eyes still closed, she rolls over, instinctively seeking out the body that was there when she fell asleep.

It's not there, of course. The sheets are cold and empty on the other side of the bed, any sign of Isabela's presence having vanished in the dead of night. No matter how many times she wakes like this, it always hurts—a wound torn open anew, never allowed to fully heal. If she's fortunate, perhaps she'll eventually build up enough scar tissue to shield her from the hollow ache that thrums in her chest.

Isabela's offered a number of excuses over the years—until she realized Marian didn't buy any of them, and simply stopped trying—but Marian knows it all boils down to fear. To stay the night would open Isabela to all sorts of nasty emotional stuff—vulnerability, commitment, attachment. It's too familiar, too…intimate.

This has never been about _intimacy_.

Sometimes, Marian will think back to Lothering, when she was a little girl and her family was whole. She remembers Bethany—sweet, beautiful Bethany, who deserved a far better fate than the one she got, dashed against the rocks, then abandoned by necessity on some nameless plateau. She was always more prone to girlish fancies than Marian, more drawn to stories of romance and destiny and true love. On days when Father gave them a break from their magical training, Bethany would sit by the window and sing, making believe she was Alindra, waiting for her soldier to come for her.

It was a silly thing, and Marian always thought so. They were both mages, and she at least knew what that meant—any dreams of finding love, building a life with someone, having children, were only dreams and nothing more. Mother and Father found each other, Bethany always argued, but Marian was never convinced enough to hope that chance would favor her the same way.

It's strange, how Marian never found herself longing for it until Bethany was gone. Mother would have been content if she'd found a nice man of noble lineage, secured her family's name for future generations, but a small, deeply buried part of Marian wants to find a love like Bethany used to dream of. It would be a fitting tribute to her baby sister, to prove that it's possible after all. She likes to think that if she ever succeeded, Bethany would be able to look down from her place at the Maker's side and be content with the knowledge that at least one of them had been able to find love.

Those are rare occasions, though, and for the most part Marian tries to ignore that tiny, yearning voice inside. She hopes that Bethany can't see her, can't see the mess that Marian has made of their family—or that if she can see, she looks away, turns her back like the Maker did so long ago.

Tears sting at Marian's eyes, and she buries her face in the pillow. If she closes her eyes, concentrates, she can almost detect a faint hint of whiskey and sweat lingering on the fabric.

 

* * *

 

_i fell in to a burning ring of fire_  
 _i went down, down, down_  
 _and the flames went higher_  
 _and it burns, burns, burns_

A sick feeling eats away at Marian's stomach, bitter guilt rising in her throat as she watches Castillon stride out of the warehouse, head held high. In her mind's eye, she can see all of the people the man has enslaved, all the ones who will inevitably fall victim to his operation now that she's let him go free.

Well, _she_ didn't let him go free. It was Isabela's decision, and Marian let her make it. If there was anything in this world Isabela was entitled to, it was this choice. She spent the last seven years fearing for her life because of Castillon; the least Marian could do was leave his fate in her hands.

And yet, there was still some stubborn spark of hope in Marian; hope that maybe, just this once, Isabela would do the right thing. She's made no secret of her feelings regarding anything resembling slavery—it wasn't so terribly far-fetched to think Isabela might want him punished for inflicting it on so many.

What Marian forgot, in that brief moment, was Isabela's core philosophy: Isabela comes first. It served Isabela better to let the man live, to take his ship and her freedom and let someone else deal with whatever problems he might cause in the future.

So now a slaver walks free, carrying with him the evidence of his intent to expand his slave trade to the Free Marches. Marian has spent the last seven years of her life protecting the citizens of Kirkwall—how many has she just condemned to a lifetime of servitude?

She could have stopped him, could have insisted on his death and to the Void with what Isabela wanted. She's always tried to do the right thing before; a few years ago, perhaps, she would have incinerated him where he stood without a second thought, regardless of Isabela's preference. Instead, she didn't say a word as Isabela made her deal with a man who might as well be a demon.

What has Isabela turned her into? It's enough to make her want to vomit. When Isabela turns to her, steps in close murmuring something about thanking her properly, Marian flinches away.

"Maybe later, Isabela. I've got some things to do at home."

 

* * *

 

_i cheated myself,_  
 _like I knew I would_

She has no claim on Isabela. She's well aware of that, even without Isabela constantly flaunting reminders in her face. Nevertheless, she can't help the sharp pain that beats against her ribs when she thinks of Isabela with someone else.

He was a nice enough man, for an assassin—Isabela always seems to know the most interesting people—but it galled Marian to hear Isabela so casually proposition him without even a glance her way. She could have joined them—Isabela's oh-so-generous idea of a compromise—but the thought of seeing it, participating in it, made her more sick than the thought of it happening at all.

Even now, when he's long gone and it's just the two of them in Isabela's room at the Hanged Man, Marian can't get him out of her head. His hands on Isabela's skin, his mouth pressing against all her most intimate places. Marian can still smell him on Isabela, man-sweat and Antivan leather, and it turns her stomach. She tried to insist on a bath, but Isabela was eager and impatient and the walk to Hightown was just _too far_.

Instead Marian presses against Isabela all the harder, trying to wash away his scent with her own. She sinks her teeth into the curve of Isabela's shoulder, sucking until angry bruises blossom, visible even against Isabela's dark complexion. She grinds wantonly against the thigh between her legs, coating it with her own slick arousal as she thrusts her fingers deeper into Isabela's heat.

When it's all over, after they've cried out and shuddered against each other, when Isabela has flopped onto the bed beside her, Marian feels overwhelmingly…dirty. Her fingers are cold and sticky, her skin tightening where sweat cools in the dank air, and even in the thick haze of sex that lingers over the bed, she can _feel_ him in the room with them.

Perhaps it's because Isabela has history with him, or perhaps it's just that Marian is tired—Maker's breath, she's so bloody _tired_ —but she can't shrug this one off like she has countless times over the years.

"Where do you think you're going?" Isabela asks when Marian gets up and begins hunting for her clothes. She's lounging on the bed in a deliberately provocative pose, lamplight flickering over dark, sweat-slick skin, eyes glinting with mischief as she quirks an eyebrow. "We haven't even gotten to round two yet."

Marian sighs—a heavy, weary thing—and pulls on her shirt. "Not tonight."

 

* * *

 

_my love is growing stronger, as you become a habit to me_  
 _oh, I've been loving you too long_  
 _i don't wanna stop now_

"I think I'm falling for you."

It takes a few seconds to register in Marian's head—and even when it does, she can't quite believe she's heard Isabela right. She's heard the words—or something like them—a million times in her dreams, imagined countless scenarios in which Isabela might say them. Now that they've been said, Marian finds she can't believe them. Surely Isabela is working some kind of angle, pulling out all the stops to keep Marian from putting an end to whatever screwed up thing they have between them.

"How can I be sure you're not just telling me what you think I want to hear?" Marian asks, her voice cold and guarded.

"Andraste's flaming tits, you've got to make everything so bloody complicated," Isabela huffs. She takes another swig of the Hanged Man's typical piss passing for whiskey. "I'm not just going to sit here while you have another go at how terrible a person I am. I can get that from Aveline."

"I'm sorry," Marian says, and she actually is—she's never heard Isabela sound quite so genuinely vulnerable. She just can't figure out if that means Isabela's being honest for once in her life, or if Isabela's simply gotten that much better at lying.

"Look, just…tell me if I have a shot with you." Isabela is almost pleading now, amber eyes glimmering with what at least appears to be real emotion. Her knuckles are pale as she grips her drink. "I know I've screwed up more times than Varric has chest hairs. I've never done the whole monogamy thing, and odds are I'll make a big sodding mess of it, but…I want to try. For you. _With_ you."

Tears prick at Marian's eyes, swell up in her throat. Her hand trembles as she reaches across the table to rest it on Isabela's arm. "You've always had a shot with me," she says, her voice shaking. "No matter what I do, I can't seem to stay away."

Isabela chuckles. "I know the feeling. Why do you think I even came back to this bloody city?"

Warmth blossoms in Marian's chest. She's long suspected that she was the reason for Isabela's return, but she never wanted to let herself believe it. Her thumb strokes gently back and forth along Isabela's skin, ruffling the fine hair on her forearm. A fragile smile creeps onto her lips. "Promise you're not going to run off and break my heart?"

Quirking an eyebrow, Isabela releases her mug, shifting her arm so that her fingers can wrap around Marian's own. Slowly, she stands. "I won't if you don't give me a reason to."

A quick tug pulls Marian to her feet and into Isabela's body. Even though they've kissed more times than Marian could ever count, there's something different about this time. It's sweeter, richer, full of promise. Isabela's hands are strangely gentle where they rest on her hips, not urgent or demanding but patient.

When she pulls away, meeting Isabela's giddy smile with a grin of her own, Marian can feel some tiny spark flaring back to life inside her chest. If Kirkwall has taught her one thing, it's that she's not allowed to be happy—but maybe she can have this one thing for herself. Maybe this can work.

 

* * *

 

_baby, you finally made me happy_  
 _when you walked out that door_  
 _all the times you made me cry_  
 _now all I feel is joy_  


"This is all your bloody fault."

Marian gapes as Isabela storms past her into the front hall. "If this is your way of saying 'thank you', we could have done it back on the Wounded Coast."

Isabela whirls around, advancing until Marian can feel the anger rolling off of her in hot waves. "Why should I thank you?" she spits. "I didn't need your blighted help."

An indelicate snort manages to get past Marian's restraint. She's got to be joking. "Oh, because you were doing splendidly on your own. All tied up and unconscious."

"They wouldn't have even bothered to take me if it weren't for you!"

Disbelief gives way to anger as Marian realizes Isabela is actually _upset_ about being saved. "Well I'm _so_ sorry that you're actually important to me," she snaps back.

"That's exactly the problem!" Isabela pulls away, gesturing emphatically as she starts to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace. "Everything was so much simpler when I just didn't matter to anyone. I could do what I liked, without worrying what someone else might think. I had control over my own bloody life."

Daring to step closer, Marian rests a hand on Isabela's shoulder, feels it tense under her fingers. She should have known it wasn't anything as simple as anger. It's fear—it always comes down to fear. "I would never try to control you, Isabela," she says, keeping her voice as soft and earnest as possible.

Isabela sighs, her shoulders sagging in defeat. Her eyes fix on the carpet at their feet. "You don't have to try—you just do. Your expectations, your feelings…I've had enough of it."

The breath rushes from Marian's lungs, and a thick, uneasy feeling pools in the pit of her stomach. "What are you saying?"

Shaking her head, Isabela steps back. "I thought I could do this, but I can't. I'm not the person you want me to be, Hawke. I never will be."

Shock freezes Marian's limbs. She can't move, can't think, can't breathe as Isabela brushes past her. She listens to the familiar thud of Isabela's boots walking out, hears the heavy slam of the door that says Isabela is gone.

They've fought before—more times than she can count—but something about this feels different. _Is_ different. Before, they would always make up the next day, or week, or even years later. They'd crash against each other, releasing all of the anger and frustration the best way they knew how, and once they'd collapsed in a pile of sore, sweaty limbs, whatever they'd fought about would be in the past—never forgotten, but no longer important.

It doesn't feel like that's going to happen this time. This feels _final_.

Strangely, once she gets over the shock of it, Marian feels like a huge weight has been lifted from her chest. Seven years she's pined after Isabela; they've hurt each other and fucked each other and had each others' backs. All that time, wanting so desperately what Isabela finally granted her just a few short weeks ago: a shot at a real relationship. Now they've tried, given it an honest attempt, and it failed—just like it was always destined to do.

Now, she's free.

 

* * *

 

_i put a spell on you_  
 _because you're mine_

Marian is an idiot. She's always been an idiot. She was an idiot to trust Anders, as the smoldering rubble of what used to be the Chantry can attest. Merrill's clan might still be alive if only Marian hadn't been stupid enough to help her with that blighted mirror. Kirkwall as a whole might be better off if she'd never come here—everything she did to try to help only seemed to hurt in the end.

It's for the best that she's leaving. There's nothing left for her in Kirkwall, not with all of her friends branded traitor alongside her. There's Aveline, perhaps—she's always kept herself out of the more questionable things Marian got up to—but she'll be able to help Kirkwall rebuild a lot better without Marian around attracting all kinds of trouble. Everyone else is leaving with her on Isabela's ship—who'd have thought the ill-gotten spoils of Isabela's deal with Castillon would come in so handy?

Going with Isabela is a bad idea. They've kept their distance from one another ever since Isabela walked out, and being stuck on a ship together for Maker only knows how long just can't end well. Marian is halfway tempted to strike out on her own, take her mabari and find some nice cave up on Sundermount where no one will ever look for her—if such a place even exists.

Unfortunately, going with Isabela is also the smartest idea. She'd be lucky to get out of Kirkwall without attracting the attention of the templars, and though they fear her now, she can't rely on that lasting longer than it takes to deal with the lyrium-veined statue that used to be their Knight-Commander. And as much as she likes to think there's somewhere she could go that they wouldn't find her, the truth is her only chance at not winding up dead or Tranquil is to stay on the run—something that's infinitely easier when one has a mode of transportation beyond their own two feet.

It looks as though they're almost ready to depart. Isabela is on deck, barking orders at the crew she somehow managed to assemble in the time it would take most noblewomen to get dressed. When the crew is set loose to perform their duties, Isabela turns to raise an eyebrow at Marian.

"Hawke, if you don't get that cute arse of yours on board soon, I'm going to leave you behind!"

Against her better judgment, Marian feels a smile tug at her lips, and she forces her legs to move. As she steps off of the gangplank onto the main deck, she's struck momentarily speechless at the sight of Isabela up close. She looks almost like a different person on deck—completely in her element, moving easily with the rocking of the ship. There's a confidence about her, a peace that she's never had on land.

With a certainty the likes of which she's never felt before, Marian knows in this moment that if Isabela asks, she won't be able to say no.

It comes as no surprise, then, that Marian finds herself falling back against mustard-colored satin sheets, panting for air as Isabela collapses next to her. This doesn't change anything, she knows. Isabela will always be scared, will always rail against anything she might view as an attempt to control her. She'll never be faithful to Marian, never be hers. But she is more Marian's than she is anyone else's, and that will just have to be enough.

She was an idiot to ever think she could be free of this.

 

_and i don't care_  
 _if you don't want me_  
 _i'm yours right now_


End file.
